


Gold Medal Feeling

by orphan_account



Category: Women's Soccer RPF
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-04
Updated: 2016-09-04
Packaged: 2018-08-12 23:30:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7953394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christen misses her penalty but definitely doesn't miss her shot and Tobin gets something far better than a gold medal... Sexytimes cure the Olympic blues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gold Medal Feeling

“Pick up, pick up, pick up,” Tobin mutters to herself sighing as her phone suddenly stops ringing and eases into Christen’s voice enthusiastically encouraging her to leave a message. “Damn it,” she grumbles, looking up at the aging taxi driver who is staring at her questioningly, probably wondering how much longer she plans to have him drive up and down his country with no real destination. “Uhmm…” she glances down at her phone, silently pleading for it to suddenly ring (for Christen to suddenly make her whereabouts known).

She gets nothing.

“Uhmm… Keep driving. Just a little longer,” she instructs and the Brazilian man looks at her carefully, his expression solemn like maybe if his English were better or if her Portuguese weren’t so whatever-she-picked-up-from-Google-when-she-was-bored-on-the-plane, then maybe he would inquire as to what’s bugging her; instead, he nods and turns to restart the car.   

Tobin stares out the window, gazing at the crowds of people—searching.

She knows that she can be kinda aloof sometimes; it’s not like she means to be or anything; it’s just that her usual method of dealing with things is the ‘completely shut down emotionally and stick to herself’ type of method and sometimes it’s hard to remember that not everybody deals with things the same way. She really wishes she had thought about that earlier though when she had seen Christen leaving the Village. She really wishes she hadn’t opted to give Christen some space; she wishes that she had stopped her, maybe hugged her and suggested they watch a movie or go hang out on the beach or grab some dinner or something. She wishes she had done anything really except helplessly watch her leave, because now she can’t find her and she’s pretty sure JJ is going to murder her in her sleep if she goes back to the Village without the Forward in tow. She’s pretty sure Kelley is gonna be in on the murder too.

She’s seriously running out of places to look though. Christen isn’t at the beach (that was the first place Tobin had looked), she isn’t at any popular tourist attractions; she isn’t catching any other Olympics events. Tobin is about to move onto some uncharacteristically Christen places (seedy bars, possibly) when she recognizes a park with a small soccer field that she remembers Christen mentioning had looked a lot like a park she used to play at when she was little.

It’s the most Christen-like thing in the universe and Tobin could almost kick herself for not thinking of it sooner. 

“Stop here,” she tells the driver, the declaration apparently startling enough that he actually stomps on the brakes. “Sorry,” she apologizes, quickly getting out of the car. She hands him a wad of Reais from her pocket, probably too much if the shocked look on his face is anything to go by, but she waves off his halfhearted protest, thanking him in an admittedly horrible attempt at Portuguese before rushing off to the park gate.

It’s late and the chain-link fence gate is locked but Christen is in there; Tobin can just about make out her silhouette —unmistakably Christen as she sets up the ball, shoulders rising and falling as she takes a breath and runs onto it, curling it perfectly into the bottom right corner.

Tobin smiles. She still doesn't know how Christen manages to do it — how she’s able to make herself seem so small even when she’s so dynamic.

Getting arrested for trespassing is not particularly high on her list of things to do in Rio but Christen’s worth it, she thinks, as she scales the fence, approaching carefully so she doesn’t startle the Forward.

If Christen senses her presence, she makes no move to acknowledge it so Tobin hangs back, tucking her hands into her front pockets and watching for a couple of minutes as Christen sets up shot after shot, slotting each of them between the goalposts with ease.      

“What number are you on?” she asks after a moment, remembering Christen’s daily ritual of practicing one hundred goals per day and knowing without a doubt that scoring even a thousand of them will never in her mind erase that one penalty she missed today.

“74,” Christen answers, seemingly not at all startled by Tobin’s presence (climbing the fence wasn't exactly easy or quiet).

Tobin nods even though Christen hasn’t even looked her way yet. She watches, smiling as another shot finds its home in the back of the net.

“Need a keeper?” she asks and Christen looks at her now, eyes red-rimmed and puffy; Tobin’s chest squeezes painfully just imagining the Forward alone and crying in the middle of a kid’s soccer field in the middle of a foreign country.

“Did you bring Hope or Alyssa with you?” She asks and Tobin can tell she means it to sound harsh but it’s Christen so it sounds mildly agitated at best.

Tobin simply scoffs, ignoring the brush off as she rolls up the sleeves of her button-up and steps in front of goal.

The first shot Christen takes is hard but precise, sailing right into the top left corner with enough force to rattle the dented goal posts before Tobin can even think to stop it.

Tobin has very rarely seen Christen get mad but when she has seen her angered, it’s _this_ — this quiet, seething rage aimed at no one but herself.

“Nice one!” she tells her. “75,” she counts, not sure what else to say, certainly not sure if she should poke the elephant in the room or simply try to distract Christen from thinking about it any longer.

Christen clearly isn't in the mood for pretense.

“What are you doing here, Tobin?” she asks suddenly, her voice quiet against the hum of the lively city as she sets the ball up again, further back this time and at an angle.

“Well, you’re here, so…” Tobin answers, diving to try to save a shot that ends up tucked into the bottom right corner regardless of her effort (she really has to give keepers their dues for making this looks so easy). “Great shot,” she enthuses, tossing the ball back. Immediately, Christen volleys it and it nets high into top left corner; Tobin whistles. “Even Hope couldn’t have saved that one,” she jokes, hoping to get at least a giggle out of Christen; she gets nothing — just pursed lips and an expression that looks dangerously close to crying again.

“Chris,” Tobin sighs, holding onto the ball because clearly they need to talk; clearly they need to do something —anything but keep up this reminder of Christen’s rare shortcoming.

She’s about to suggest they go back to the Village or go for a walk or something but before she can even formulate the words, Christen crumbles, shoulders shaking with the weight of the world she’s hoisted onto her shoulders. She sobs silently, a beautiful masterpiece shattering before Tobin’s eyes. Tobin can only hope she’s quick enough to catch all the pieces to put them back together perfectly.

“Hey,” she soothes, looping her arms beneath Christen armpits and tugging her in close. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay,” Christen sniffles, uncharacteristically stiff in Tobin embrace. “I screwed up. I messed this up for the team— for you! Be mad at me. Be disappointed. Stop being so nice to me.”

“Christen,” Tobin chuckles, sweeping her fingers down the Forward’s spine. “Do you really think I could be mad at you over something like this? I mean if it were me or any of the other girls who missed that penalty and really, it could have been any of us, you would have been the first one there with your infectious optimism telling everyone how we’re only gonna get better and stuff.”

Tobin is speaking the truth; she knows with one hundred percent certainty that it’s the truth but Christen only sighs into the skin where she’s pressed herself against Tobin neck, her chest heaving with the force of the tears falling warm and steady into the crook of Tobin’s collarbone.

Tobin tugs her down to the ground with her and sits, pulling the the Forward onto her lap. She wraps her arms around the younger player’s waist and holds tight, letting Christen wrap her arms around her neck to steady herself whilst her emotions get the best of her. 

“I don't know why you’re so hard on yourself, ” Tobin murmurs, her voice hushed against the loose hair of Christen’s ponytail. Christen smells like summer  — like an intoxicating mix of grass and ocean water and fresh berries and Tobin longs to be able to put a taste to that smell but she doesn't, she can't, so she settles for running her fingers across Press’ back, playing with the mesh material of her shirt and tracing small circles into the dips and indents in skin made by muscle. “I don't think you realize how good you are; like sometimes I look over and see you in training or see you in a match and I’m literally in awe of your talent.”

“Shut up,” Christen mutters against her neck, disbelieving. She’s clinging onto Tobin hard now, tears still falling and making her voice hiccup.

“Hey,” Tobin cups the younger woman’s chin, uses her thumbs to sweep away tears as they fall; she wants Christen to see her, to feel the truth of her words. “I’m serious though, Chris,” she tells her. “I mean, I even remember your first Cap,”

“No, you don’t,” Christen scoffs lightly, trying to turn away; Tobin cups her cheek — doesn't let her look away from her.

“Swear to God,” she whispers, suddenly struck by just how close they are — by just how intimate this is, by how softly Christen is looking at her, her skin softly flushed with tears clinging to eyelashes. Tobin swallows hard, sweeps her thumb gently across Christen’s cheekbone. “You were so quiet at camp, like I wanted to talk to you so bad but you always seemed to be in your own little zen world. Then you got on the pitch on match day and you were like a whole different person. So much energy just burst out of you; you didn't even hesitate when that ball fell to you; you just went for it and scored an amazing goal. And then your second goal, honestly, when I crossed that ball into the box, I was aiming for Alex. I knew the moment I kicked it though that it was too high and I thought there was no way you were going to make that run between two defenders and yet, there you were, heading it in and I realized then just how amazing you were. How amazing you still _are_. And anybody who says otherwise doesn't know you or how hard you work at this. So, take it from someone who does know you, I know you’re gonna move on from this and keep being the amazing player that you are and keep scoring the amazing goals that you score and keep being the amazing person that you are. Trust me on this, okay?”

Christen sniffles, taking a huge shuddering breath as she leans back to look at her. The tears have all but stopped now and Tobin carefully brushes away the remnants of them, lets her fingers linger against Christen’s skin.

“Can you do that? Can you trust that I actually know what I’m talking about for once?” Tobin asks, raising an eyebrow.

Christen smiles softly, looking at Tobin so gently like maybe she’s truly seeing her for the first time in a long time.

“I trust you, Tobs,” she says, wrapping her arms around Tobin’s neck and holding tight. The intensity is enough to raise goosebumps on Tobin’s skin and she finds herself swallowing hard again, trying to temper the primal want that surges through her chest.

“Good,” she breathes out, untangling their limbs so she can stand, so she can pull Christen up with her. “Then let's finish your hundred goals because I know it’ll bug you if you don't get them all in.”

Christen laughs, it’s watery but genuine in the way it rattles her chest and sparkles in her eyes. It’s one of those laughs Tobin wouldn't mind hearing a hundred times over; it’s a laugh she certainly wouldn't mind being the cause of a hundred times over.

“I’m gonna save at least one of them. Just watch,” she insists, grinning as Christen retrieves the ball from where it rolled away forgotten on the pitch.

“We’ll see,” Christen chuckles, lining up a shot.

 

Tobin doesn't save a single one but Christen looks a bit lighter by the time the hundredth goes in and Tobin can't help but sling an arm around her shoulders — can't help but get close to her even though she knows she’ll never get close enough to satisfy the yearning that burns through her.

“Time to go back to the Village before JJ sends sends a search party,” she suggests but Christen stiffens at her words, suddenly deflating beneath her arm. “Chris?”

“I can’t go back,” she says, pleading. “Not right now. I can't stand being around everyone I let down right now.”

Tobin wants to argue that she didn't let anyone down, that the girls aren't disappointed in her at all but she knows deep down Christen already knows that; she known Christen probably just needs some more time to gather herself.

“Okay, that’s fine,” Tobin agrees, squeezing Christen’s shoulder. “We can go wherever you want.”

 

Most of the hotels around the area are booked solid but they find one on Google that has a few unoccupied rooms.

The taxi driver they wave down is the exact same one who drove her here and he takes one look at Christen tucked beneath her arm and smiles like he understands why Tobin had him drive aimlessly around for over an hour and he certainly doesn’t fault her for it. In fact, he must really get it because he waves her off as she tries to hand him more money after he drops them to the hotel and before she can leave, he looks at her carefully, clearly weighing up his words, making sure they translate right.

“You love her,” he says, nodding over to where Christen is waiting by the hotel door. He says it with no preamble, no question, just a simple statement he seems able to draw from her behavior.

Tobin nods dumbstruck, not sure how to respond seeing as it isn't a question, isn't an accusation, isn’t even a judgment. It’s true though, she does love her, whether as a friend, whether as someone she wishes were more than a friend, it doesn't really matter because she loves her; she would have hotwired a car and drove them right to  Colombia if that’s what Christen had wanted — if that's what Christen needed to bounce back from this.

“I do,” she verbally acknowledges and the man nods, sage and accepting.

“Good,” he says, smiling, and Tobin finds herself wishing this man has kids and grandkids and a whole heap of people he can depart his easy wisdom on. “She loves you,” he insists, like it’s fact, like it’s something he can discern from twenty minutes of Christen cuddled up next to her in the back of a taxi cab. Tobin can only hope and even then, she doesn't hope too much, doesn't want to ever face the possibility of it not being true.

She can only smile at the man, sincerely thanking him again for his patience with her before she rejoins Christen at the door.

 

Like something straight out of a movie, the only rooms the hotel has left are ones with one bed. Christen doesn't seem bothered by it though; in fact, Christen hadn't seemed interested in anything except the super large shower which she’s been in for like half an hour now.

Tobin waits patiently. She doesn't turn on the TV (doesn't want to see any replays of that match whatsoever) so she busies herself by texting Julie and Kelley, making sure they know Chris is safe and sound; she texts Ali and Carli who promise to cover for them if need be and she checks on Mal and Alex, gets a ton of text messages about how everyone hopes to see Christen’s bright and smiling face by tomorrow. Tobin is halfway through responding to one of those messages from Kling when Christen comes out of the bathroom, wrapped in a fluffy white robe, damp hair falling in waves around her shoulder.

She's gorgeous — like something straight out of a magazine.

“Damn, were you meditating in there, Press?” Tobin jokes, disguising the hitch of her breath in her playfulness. Christen certainly looks brighter, any evidence of prior tears scrubbed clean. “You feeling better?” she asks, moving over to make room for Chris on the bed. 

“Cleaner at least,” Christen answers, scooting in right next to Tobin and resting her head on her shoulder. She smells of hotel room shampoo — something clean and fruity — and Tobin loves how she leans against her, loves how she doesn't even fuss about getting her wet or anything.

“Thanks for this,” Christen says after a moment, resting comfortably against the side of Tobin neck.

“Hey, don't thank me. I suck,” Tobin argues, wrapping an arm around Christen’s shoulders.

“You don’t suck,” she replies, easy and sure, like it’s something she would argue until her dying days.

“I do though. I saw you leaving the Village earlier and I should have stopped you or something. I should have done something instead of let you leave thinking you deserve anyone to be mad at you over a stupid missed penalty. I should have been there for you.”

“You are here for me,” Christen says, easing back slightly so they can look at each other, so Tobin can see the humble intensity of her gaze and be absolutely wrecked by it. “You’re always here for me when I need you,” she says, smiling in a way that makes Tobin’s heart feel like it’s going to break out of her ribcage.

“And I always will be,” Tobin promises.

“Yeah?” Christen asks, sounding hopeful.

Tobin is about to tell her how totally committed to that promise she is but before she can even get the words out, Christen kisses her.

It’s so quick — just enough for Tobin to feel how soft Christen’s lips are, enough for Tobin’s lips to tingle from the contact; barely long enough for her to process anything. It’s just Christen’s lips pressing against hers for a fleeting moment and just as suddenly, Christen is backing away, eyes wide.

“Sorry,” she quickly apologizes, covering her mouth with her hand.

Tobin captures her hand, doesn't let her scoot away too far.

“Don't apologize,” she pleads, looking at Christen carefully, trying to discern what she’s feeling. The taxi driver's words are still ringing in her head and her lips are still tingling and her palm is warm on top of Christen’s. She wants so badly to feel Christen’s lips again, properly this time, but not if it’s for the wrong reasons, not if Christen doesn't want it like she does. “Just tell me it wasn’t just because you’re upset and I’m the only one here.”

“Tobin,” Christen says, smiling at Tobin like she’s an adorable puppy or something. She reaches for her, fingertips brushing against her jawline; it’s a brief touch but enough to unravel Tobin completely. “When I left earlier, I didn't want to be around anyone but then there's _you_. I always want to be around you. I wouldn't want anyone here but you,” Christen tells her in that absolutely sincere Christen-esque way she has about her.

“Yeah?” Tobin asks, grinning because she can't help it, because Christen is leaning forward, looking at her like she might she just kiss her again.

She does.

And Tobin expects it this time — relishes in it this time. Christen’s lips are so soft — though Tobin already knew that from the amount of times they’ve ended up pressed against her cheek or the back of her hand or her forehead. This is different though, better, because Christen is actually kissing her, just gentle little pecks but enough to make Tobin feel like she’s soaring or falling or maybe just leveling off — finally just stabilizing at the point she ought to be at for the rest of her life.

She wishes she could do this for the rest of her life — wishes she didn't have to go another day without feeling the warmth of Christen’s fingers splayed against her shoulder or Christen’s breath blowing warm against her lips.

Christen shifts closer, fingernails lightly scratching at the nape of Tobin’s neck.

“Is this okay?” she pulls back to ask, looking at Tobin through her lashes.

Tobin doesn't answer her question, doesn't have words to express just how okay it is, so she leans back in, darts her tongue out to taste the plush of Christen’s bottom lip and very quickly their kissing turns from something soft and sweet into something hot and desperate. Christen parts her lips for her and Tobin accepts the invitation, slips her tongue against the satiny smooth depths of her mouth and God, suddenly Tobin can’t breathe unless it’s into Christen, can’t suck in a breath unless it’s laced with Christen’s taste.

Tobin absolutely loves it; she loves the faintly sweet taste she licks off of Christen’s tongue, loves how Christen nips at her bottom lip and soothes the sting with a hot lap of her tongue; she loves how Christen’s fingernails dig into her skin when their tongues touch, loves how Christen kisses her until the breathlessness is dizzying and even then, she just kisses her harder, fits their mouths together more resolutely until the need for air forces them to part.

Christen is a vision _always_ , but when she pulls back, chest heaving, lips slightly pink and kiss-swollen, pupils blown wide and rimmed dark and cheeks tinted red, Tobin thinks she looks downright otherworldly and she finds herself reaching out to touch — to verify the authenticity of it all, to make sure she isn’t dreaming it up. Christen’s cheek is warm beneath her fingertips and when she sweeps her thumb across her slick bottom lip, Christen pulls the wandering digit into her mouth, curls her tongue against the pad and Tobin’s stomach lurches, feels like it drops so low that the abrupt throbbing hunger consumes her, makes her clench her thighs together for even a semblance of relief. 

“Chris,” she breathes out, feeling winded, but no words are forthcoming. She’s not sure there even is a word for what she’s feeling — not sure she could even devise paragraphs to describe suddenly getting something she hadn't even realized she wanted _this_ badly.

Christen releases Tobin’s thumb from the sanctity of her warm mouth with a slight _pop_ and smiles, pressing her lips sweetly against the slick digit like she hadn't just short circuited Tobin’s brain completely.

Tobin pulls her to sit comfortably in her lap, easily wipes that grin off her face with her mouth and when she licks across the inside of Christen’s bottom lip, Christen grinds her hips into her, tangles her fingers in her hair and tugs in a way that makes Tobin instantly breathless.

Tobin dips to plant her kisses across Christen’s jaw and down the column of her throat, stopping for a moment to bury her nose in the crook of the Forward’s shoulder, reveling in the sweet smell of freshly showered skin. She spends time dragging her tongue against the throbbing pulse in her neck until Christen is shivering in her arms, making these breathy little needy groans that Tobin feels all the way to her core.

“Lay back,” Christen suddenly instructs, her voice the roughest Tobin has ever heard it as she pushes on Tobin’s shoulders, encouraging her to lean back against the pillows she had been lounging on earlier. Tobin does as told, content to let Christen take charge, content to let her set her pace, content to let her set her boundaries or lack thereof, Tobin realizes, as Christen scoots back to straddle her hips, her fingers nimbly tugging on the knot holding her robe together. The white cotton falls opens and Christen shrugs out of it, completely bare beneath the material.

Tobin feels like she can't breathe.

“Jesus Christen,” she gasps, swallowing hard against the sudden lump in her throat because beautiful doesn't even begin to cover it.

Christen is breathtaking — all tanned and softly muscled. It’s nothing like how Tobin has seen her before, not like the glimpses of skin she catches in the locker room or when Christen casually changes in front of her, not even like that nude photoshoot with their make up artists on hand with airbrushes. No, Christen is truly bare before her now, scars and all, and Tobin doesn't have a single word for her expect _perfect_.

She finds herself almost hypnotized, finds herself reaching out to touch without even thinking about it. She grasps at the Forward’s slim waist, sits up and dips to sucks bruises against the skin sheathing protruding hip bones, moves upwards to lick at the lines of muscle surfacing on Christen’s abdomen, to nip at the dips of her ribcage.

She touches her lips gently against Christen’s breastbone, kisses alongside the swell of her breast and pulls a nipple into her mouth, feels the flesh pucker against her tongue. Christen sighs her name, bucks her hips hard and Tobin’s body reacts, warming quickly beneath the weight of Christen.

Tobin honestly doesn't remember the last time she was this turned on.

Christen’s hands certainly aren't helping on that front; her fingers are quick and light, trailing beneath Tobin shirt to brush against skin.

She expertly unbuttons Tobin’s shirt and tugs it off her shoulders. She makes short work of Tobin’s sports bra too and then she’s pushing Tobin back against the pillows again, fitting their mouths together as she slides down to settle herself between Tobin’s thighs.

Even through her shorts, Tobin feels the sudden pressure, feels the flutter in her stomach, and gasps, grips Christen’s hips to keep her as close as possible.

“God, Chris,” she murmurs when Christen rocks into her again — slides her lips down her chin, across her jaw; she nips at her earlobe and Tobin shudders, rakes blunt fingernails down sharp shoulders and digs into Christen’s biceps.

Christen grins against her skin, fingers skating down her sides to slip into the waistband of her shorts. She unbuttons them, tugs purposefully, eases back to pull them all the way down and off. Tobin’s boyshorts are next and as soon as Christen has them off, she stops, eyes roaming hungrily over Tobin’s body. Tobin expects to feel self conscious, expects to want to cover up, but in truth, she doesn't feel anything but wanted beneath Christen’s gaze.

“I can't believe this is happening,” Christen whispers, soft and reverent, fingers gliding across skin and stopping to cup Tobin’s breasts in her palms.

Tobin wants to tell her she can't believe it either, that she’s still not entirely sure she isn't dreaming, but Christen settles against her, nestles her hips between Tobin’s thighs and well, Tobin knows without a doubt that this is definitely real because she couldn't imagine that sexy guttural little whimper Christen makes even if she tried.

She’s trying to control herself; trying to be less teenaged-boy-lands-his-dream-lay but it’s hard not to chase the pleasure when Christen keeps thrusting into her; it’s hard to decide where to put her hands when the curve of Christen’s ass fits perfectly in her palms, but so does Christen’s hips and her breasts and when she slides her fingers against the knots of Christen’s spine, she makes the hottest little desperate whine that makes Tobin want to do it a million times over.

Tobin is the best kind of conflicted but Christen, it seems, is not conflicted at all; she’s got the same laser-like focus she exhibits in everything else, determined and unwavering as her hands dance across Tobin’s midsection, fingers slowly moving lower to brush against Tobin’s inner thigh.

Tobin very almost begs— for Christen to touch her, for any sort of relief— but she doesn't have to because Christen has mercy on her, finally slips her fingers down to cup her where she needs her most.

The pleasure is instant and electric; Christen’s fingers are soft but sure as she drags her fingertips experimentally across heated flesh.

Tobin’s whole body reacts — hips rising, fingers grasping, toes curling; she’s at Christen’s mercy and Christen is (as Tobin really should have predicted) a quick study — very quickly discovering exactly how to touch her to make her moan and quiver, to make her lose herself to the pleasure.

Christen narrows in on the swollen nub of Tobin’s clit and Tobin keens, tries to bite the inside of her cheek to suppress the needy moan that rises from her chest but Christen quells the sound (and Tobin’s embarrassment) with her lips, reduces her to winded little whimpers that get lost between their mouths. She can't tell if she’s trembling against Christen’s fingers or if Christen’s trembling against her but it hardly matters and matters even less when Chris sinks into her, settles herself slick and warm against the stretch of Tobin’s thigh.

“Oh my God, Chris,” Tobin says or thinks she says; honestly, it’s hard to be sure when Christen is expertly rubbing at her clit with sure strokes — when Christen is rocking against her, panting softly into the curve of her shoulder.

Tobin has to touch her too, can't help but fit her hand between their concerted bodies to feel the silky heat beneath her fingers.

It’s not the best angle but Christen is so ready for her that it hardly matters. When she slips a finger into her, Christen moans, her fingers stuttering against Tobin’s skin but pressing harder, touching her with even more determination than before.

Tobin is close; she can feel her body pulling taut, can feel a contented heaviness in her limbs as she begins to unfurl.

She presses her lips to Christen’s, kisses her hard and uncoordinated as her orgasm rocks her — leaves her gasping and shaking, sweaty and spent, barely aware of anything except the way Christen is still clenching around her finger, still panting against her lips.

Tobin pushes another finger inside her, feels as Christen’s breath catches (more breathless than a few sprints around the pitch usually makes her), feels as she curves into her, steadily working herself to climax, rocking against Tobin's thigh, clenching around Tobin’s fingers.

Christen comes beautifully, breathes a strangled gasp of Tobin’s name against her skin as her body stills, walls clench, fingers grasp, chest heaves. Tobin doesn’t think she’s ever seen anything more beautiful, doesn’t think she’s felt more whole than when Chris rests her head on her chest to catch her breath.

Sex-blissed Christen may be Tobin’s favorite Christen because slightly sweaty, lightly smiling and laying on Tobin’s chest, Christen looks like she’s been to her zen place a couple billion times over and unlocked all the doors to all the world peace or something.

Tobin revels in it — works her fingers through Christen’s hair, untangling knots from unruly waves, listening to her breathing as it evens out, feeling the flutter of her eyelashes on her skin. Tobin kind of never wants this moment to end.

“We should go somewhere,” she decides; her voice still sounds hoarse to her own ears. 

“Tobs,” Christen whines, biting her bottom lip, still slightly swollen from kissing; Tobin tugs on a strand of hair, tramples the urge to kiss her again. “I can barely move right now.”

Tobin chuckles.

“Not now. I meant tomorrow. Let’s just go somewhere. Anywhere. Chicago, Portland, LA, I don't care where, let's just go somewhere during our quick break and be this.”

“This?” Christen questions, leaning up on her elbows to hover over Tobin, to give her her undivided attention; it makes Tobin’s chest feel heavy. 

“You know, this. How we are now. _Together_ ,” she emphasizes.

“Together,” Christen parrots, grinning slowly. “Like in a relationship together?”

“Well, yeah,” Tobin affirms, suddenly worried she’s overstepped her boundaries, but Chris leans down and kisses her, presses her smile against Tobin’s lips and suddenly, Tobin's not so worried anymore. 

“I’d love to go away with you,” Chris murmurs, smiling prettily. “I’d love to be your girlfriend.”

“Yeah?” Tobin asks, grinning.

Christen kisses her as affirmation and Tobin kisses back but their kisses quickly disintegrate into giddy giggles so Tobin kisses the Forward's forehead instead, pulls her against her so she can hold her close.

Chris sighs in her arms and Tobin knows she's supposed to feel disappointed that they'll be leaving Rio with no medals but suddenly, she feels like she’s won a million gold medals.

She wouldn't trade this for the world.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I'm thinking of writing a Preath AU next; leave suggestions below? Please and thanks!


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